As a child I always had a pretty good idea about what I wanted to do when I grew up.
While the rest of the lads had their hearts set on playing for Dublin, on becoming firemen, on joining the circus, on penis puppetry, on the stage and on drugs, I had but one aim in life. I wanted to write goal alerts for Ireland's most popular mobile phone network, via Ireland's most popular sports broadcaster TM.
The lads would be down the end of the road kicking stones and balls into the laneway.
"Moran shoots and scores!" and I'd be perched at the side, notebook in hand.
"Sorry Kev, stop wheeling away in delight. Could you give me a minute on that scissors kick?"
"Yeah, no bother Radge, 78 minutes."
"Sound," my ten-year-old would say and I'd start jotting.
'Goalflash: Kev 2-0 Ronan. Moran '78.'
"What are you writing down? Why don't you go in goals or something?"
"Quiet," I'd counter. "I'm providing my users with an up-to-the-minute goal service direct to their mobile phones."
"Their mobile whats?"
"Their mobile phones, Ronan. In 2009 people will carry phones around in their pockets and information will get sent to them as things like goals happen y'know?"
"My ma carries her post office book, my post office book, her pills, my da's post office book, the shopping list, her lipstick and her butter vouchers around. There's no fuckin' way she'd fit a phone in her bag."
"That's the beauty of it lads. They'll be so small you'll hardly know they're there. You'll only become aware of it when you hear the beep for a text message or when someone calls you and you hear Beyoncé or Crazy Frog..."
"The fuck are you talkin' about? TEXT messages? Bouncy frogs? Fuck off."
"I'll explain later. But, lads, I have a dream. Some day I'm going to sit at a desk late at night while you're all in the pub, watching matches and as soon as something big happens like a sending off or a goal or a broken leg, I'm going to write it down into a computer in less than 140 characters and then people who subscribe will get the beep and they'll know and it'll be brilliant and yis are dopes!"
"Don't listen to him Ronan," Kev would say. "I'm 2-0 up."
I'd get thick. "You know nothin' anyway. Kevin Moran would never score a scissors kick. I'm going home!"
Well, twenty years on, I showed those cunts.